


Different

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:23:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balin inadvertently charms the dwarves out of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “[...] when the dwarves are captured, someone ELSE in the Company draws Thranduil's attention? Maybe not because of their looks, but because of something they say or do... or Thranduil can have to total beard fetish, I'm okay that with, too” prompt on the Hobbit Kink Meme.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil’s both surprised and pleased when a dwarf agrees to speak to him despite Thorin Oakenshield’s protests, but he’s less surprised when he sees which one it is. The oldest one wanders up the path behind loyal guards, his long, luxurious beard pure-white to match the thick, combed-back hair of his head. He’s as stout as most dwarves, wider around the middle than muscular, with a large nose and kind eyes—at least, as far as dwarves go. Thranduil watches the procession from his throne until they’ve reached the highest dais. 

Then they stop, and the dwarf bows low, the forked ends of his beard brushing across the polished floor. He straightens to say, deep and a little raspy, “Balin, sun of Fundin, at your service.” 

Thranduil has little need of a dwarf’s service beyond idle curiosities, but he nods his head all the same, signaling for the guards to fall back. They do so to the edge of the stairs, giving the illusion that this is a private audience, rather than a prisoner to a king. Thranduil accepts the bow as a form of respect, and besides, he can handle one withered, unarmed dwarf. His voice is still hard when he drawls, “Your leader has said quite enough; what do you hope to add?”

“The reason behind it,” Balin answers, a friendly smile on his lips that isn’t common between their peoples. It gives Thranduil pause, thinking it, at first, condescension, but there’s none of that on Balin’s open face. “Thorin’s brash, yes, but only because he’s passionate about his people, as you surely understand.”

Thranduil’s surprised at that comment but snorts all the same, flicking a hand in dismissal. “And yet he still begrudges me for my caution. He expects me to reverse time and risk the lives of my own people for a hopeless cause and a pile of stone.” He understands, of course, that that stone was their _home_ , but that doesn’t weigh enough against Elven _lives_. Oddly, Balin nods his head.

“Yes, and that is understandable. Yet in doing so, it seemed to Thorin you condemned his people. That is not to say, mind, that he’s correct, but simply that his passion can be understood.” 

Thranduil lifts one dark eyebrow, considering. He isn’t used to dwarves playing in the grey fields between morality—most he’s met have leapt to one extreme or the other. It gives him pause, and without deciding, Thranduil rises from his throne. He takes long strides down the twisted steps to the platform Balin stands on. As expected, Thranduil towers over him. But Balin doesn’t cower away or lean forward in a growl like his master. He only smiles up at Thranduil, a twinkle of wisdom in his eye and patience on his breath. Thranduil holds his hands firm behind his back and begins to take a slow circle around Balin, observing every angle. 

He’s a good reader of mortals, odd though they are, and he finds no deception in this creature. For the most part, he likes what he sees. Soft, armoured but more of a scholarly figure, thick, luscious hair and sincere features. The look of experience, of intelligence. When Thranduil reaches the front again, he muses, “You agree, however, that your king is rash.”

Balin dips his head in a nod, admitting, “Yes. He’s still young and eager to have the world his way. Sometimes, it’s a virtue, and others, it isn’t.”

Thranduil disagrees, but only points out, “He also travels with wiser council, whom he does not heed.”

“No, but no great king ever takes all their advice, and that’s no reason wiser dwarves can’t speak over their heads.” Then Balin winks, and Thranduil has to school himself to keep a grin down: now _this_ is a dwarf who knows how to speak to an elf. He’s intriguing, to say the least. 

And it’s been too long since Thranduil felt the thrill of something _new_ , with a worthy mind. Balin’s made no mention of a bargain, but that’s the situation he’s in, and Thranduil asks, voice dipping into sweeter territory, “What do you hope to offer?” He takes a step closer, his eyes obvious and raking Balin’s body, observing, calculating: he’s not too proud to admit that he’s always been somewhat curious of _dwarves_ , particularly _beards_ —which Balin has quite a lot of—but he’s never yet found one not completely infuriating to experiment with. He holds a certain fascination with the downy tufts that frame Balin’s shapely face. 

Balin only spreads open his hands, admitting freely and almost forlornly, “Sadly, I have nothing but reason.”

Grinning like a cat eyeing prey, Thranduil purrs, “Surely you have more than that.”

Balin lifts both bushy brows. Understanding crosses his eyes, but he only chuckles, “There are much younger, more handsome dwarves in your cells for you to seduce, King Thranduil.”

Thranduil waves his hand vaguely about his kingdom, full of doting subjects both pretty and eager to please him. He drawls, “I have enough of beauty. That is not what I seek. Merely... an understanding.”

Balin, strangely, shows neither sign of interest nor disinterest, and merely answers, “You won’t have much of an understanding with my side under such pressure.”

Perhaps. Thranduil hadn’t quite thought of it that way—he isn’t holding the dwarves until payment, merely as temporary punishment for insolence, and in a way, for both their protection—he knows trouble seekers when he sees them. But at the moment, he cares little for the hotheaded fools sitting well-fed in his dungeons. He takes that final step closer, leaning down and reaching forward, allowing his fingers to thread into the side of Balin’s beard. He watches Balin carefully, but Balin says nothing, only watching Thranduil with a veiled fire that Thranduil is quickly coming to desire. He finds Balin’s coyness amusing. He’s used to dwarves spitting in his face and all other creatures begging for his touch, and Balin is a new medium. Thranduil strokes his hands slowly through the silken fluff of Balin’s beard, before withdrawing his hand and announcing just loud enough for his guards: “I will release Thorin’s party despite his impudence, but he must know that whatever trouble he causes, he will have no help from my people.”

Balin replies lightly, “Thank you, and I wouldn’t dream of bargaining for such.” He glances back over one round shoulder, and Thranduil nods, signally one of the guards to leave and relay this message. When Balin looks back at Thranduil, there’s a new lightness to his face, and his smile seems to grow impossibly wide and welcoming. He sighs warmly, “With the weight of that worry off my mind, I dare say I could rouse these old bones for a bit of fun, though I doubt I should be able to live up to the delights of my host.”

The ease of Balin is invigorating. Thranduil finds himself glowing with the compliment, and he chirps in half a chuckle, “You are not so old to one such as myself, but I am sure the years you do have should make both our discussions and our vigor more interesting. You may see to the release of your friends, and they may set their camps outside for all their trouble, but I extend an invitation to you to join me for dinner tonight. I will send someone to fetch you, if this is agreeable.”

“More so than you can imagine,” Balin says, and indeed, he looks as though he now finds the prospect thoroughly hopeful. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and then he crooks his finger, bidding Thranduil to bend down. 

Thranduil obliges, and Balin lifts up, placing a sweet, ticklish kiss to Thranduil’s lips. It’s lingering but soft, pleasant and promising. When Balin’s pulled back, he graces Thranduil with another bow, then turns to the remaining guard. Thranduil watches him leave, looking more forward than ever to the stars.


End file.
